


Fault

by EwanMcGregorIsMyHomeboy12



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, BAMF Sansa Stark, Bran has a personality, Brienne is the Best, F/M, Female Empowerment, Forgiveness, Gen, Jaime Lannister Lives, Northern Traditions, Valonqar Prophecy, Warg Bran Stark, oathkeeper, smut in chapter 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-08 10:02:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19867762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EwanMcGregorIsMyHomeboy12/pseuds/EwanMcGregorIsMyHomeboy12
Summary: Word comes to Winterfell that Cersei Lannister is dead, the war over, and that Daenerys Targaryen sits on the Iron Throne with Jon Snow by her side.But the shaky peace is Westeros is built on fault lines, and as the North prepares to fight for independence, Brienne of Tarth realizes that help often comes from strange places and that some ghosts are more real than others.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, folks! 
> 
> Hope you enjoy this hot take. I really loved writing it! :D Chapter 2 will hopefully be lit. 
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoy, please R and R, let me know what you think.

Brienne could remember the exact number of times she had seen snow before coming North to meet Sansa Stark. Seven times, six of which had been during a particularly long winter that had happened back when her brother was still alive and they had packed snowballs on the walking paths surrounding Evenfall Hall, watching snow fall onto the already white-capped waves out to see. Since she had met Sansa, there had been no day that she had not seen snow: Falling freely or blowing in great drifts across the wide plains of the North. She had never cared for the cold, but snow – snow had its magic.

And there in the Godswood of Winterfell, the wind quieted by the thickening of the trees, it was especially true. She had not truly prayed for years, not since before she had learned to fight and figured out that if you wanted something in the world, you had to take it. No Gods, not even Seven of them, would hand it to you. She did not come to the Godswood to pray, though even she had to admit that the bleeding eyes of the Weirwood at its center were captivating. Enough to make someone believe in the magic that she had seen living in the army of the Dead and in Bran Stark as he became less and less human.

The snow there glittered, undisturbed except for the occasional footpath that cut through it. Brienne, perhaps not consciously, was careful to take the same path each day. The snow that fell seemed to be always just enough to fill her heavy steps in, slight indentions remaining on the top layers. She had worn the path practically through, it seemed, over the past three months. This place, this unstained snow, seemed to be as far away from the death and the war and the ashes of the realm that Brienne could nearly convince herself that they were not happening.

She had told herself that was the cause of this. The reason she came to the woods each night was to escape the trauma that years of warfare and battering and torture and pain and loss had granted her. That she came to see the ring of winter roses that Lady Sansa had lain for her parents and lost siblings at the base of the Weirwood Tree, that their eyes might guide them back. That she came to have grander contemplations about what it was that Bran saw when he sat here, eyes white and distant. She told herself that she came here not for solitude but to feel close to the life and proof of life that was bound in its trees and waters.

Brienne did not want to think of the other reasons. Of words never said in these woods, the same words exchanged by so many others after The Long Night when it seemed that men and women by the dozen had wed in hurried vows and rushed affairs. That she had thought, fleetingly, that they might do the same in the month that he had stayed fast by her side. That he had whispered those words over her skin, promises that were light as the snowflakes themselves and just as gentle. That he had pledged himself to her more than once in the quiet of her room, in the yard outside the castle, on walks through the Wolfswood, in the hallways. She did not allow herself to think that she came to Godswood because it was the only place that they had never come together.

But this night, like all of the others in front of it, and many more than were certain to follow, the truth compelled her to stand from the log she took rest on. To leave the calm and quiet and return to the castle where responsibility and memory waited as a double-edged sword for her return.

She traditionally broke her fast with Sansa and Podrick in the mornings, the pair of them surprisingly talkative to the point that she thankfully did not have to be. Lady Sansa made sure to thank her each morning, in such a subtle way that Brienne was certain she was not trying to draw attention to it. Thank her for staying, for being a friend as the North stewed in silent rebellion against their self-proclaimed king and she attempted to handle managing all of the preparations for the continuing winter. Thanked her for coming in the first place. For not riding after him in the middle of the night and leaving Sansa in this place by herself.

Today, however, their morning meal was much quieter since sitting next to Sansa was Bran, who spent the better part of five minutes slicing a quarter of some sort of winter melon into identical pieces. After it seemed that he did not wish to say much, Sansa and Podrick spoke of what they usually did. The armory, the training yard, the horses, the grain stores, changing the occasional story of Podrick and Brienne’s travels for one from Sansa’s childhood. Brienne had actually learned a good deal about Podrick from this in the way he told his stories, though she did have to hold her tongue on occasion that he saw fit to exaggerate their exploits.

Bran, it seemed, might have simply wanted company for his meal rather than taking it alone in his chambers. If he cared about what his sister and Podrick were saying, he gave no sign of it, eventually moving from his melon to his eggs. Brienne could not help but watch him. To a degree, all of the Starks were fascinating: With the exception of Sansa (usually) they lacked the false courtesy of southerners and were more apt to speak what they were genuinely thinking. Lady Arya was, as she had overheard one of the Vale Knights saying after Arya had dismembered a training dummy in less than an eyeblink, “more ‘an a bit feral”, but still had the calm resoluteness of the North settled over her. Lady Sansa looked all the part of a highborn Northern woman combined with the graces she had developed acutely from her years learning to play politics, though Brienne could occasionally see through the ice that encased Sansa’s gaze and into the gentle heart beneath it. Bran, however, was a different sort altogether.

Brienne had seen him truly smile only once, when a large raven had landed on one of the handles of his chair while he sat in the yard watching the day’s yard training. Or at least, she thought he had been watching them. She wasn’t exactly certain, no one was exactly certain, but he had asked for Podrick to assist him back into the castle when they were through so she had to assume that he had been at least marginally interested. For the most part, he appeared in the strangest places as part of Brienne’s daily routine. Some days it would be the corner of the library, eyes white and fixed on nothing as he was warmed by the morning sun. Other times it was in the Godswood, through Brienne was never certain how he managed it with all of the snow. Twice in the past week she had found him in the hallway near the baths in the middle of the night only to realize that he had been asleep and never returned to his chambers. Both times, he had thanked her as she helped him back where his bodyservant could truly assist him but said nothing more. No reason for his odd station or what he was doing lingering outside of the baths.

As she watched him now, he finished the first of his eggs taking slow, deliberate bites. “I beg your pardon, brother, Podrick was going to show me the new recruits for the household guard.” Sansa spoke carefully, as if still uncertain what it was that Bran wanted.

“I came to speak with Ser Brienne,” He said to her, eyes fixed on Brienne. Sansa looked between them, curious but knowing her brother meant it as a private conversation.

“They’ll be waiting for us now, my Lady,” Podrick said, standing swiftly and extending his arm for Sansa to take. A final glance at Brienne, and the pair of them were exiting the hall, waiting servants taking their dishes away swiftly.

Finally alone, Brienne waited on Bran to speak. But he said nothing, his long stare fixed on her as he his fork down next to his plate. Brienne wondered if he was waiting on her to admit to something, though what it could be, she had no idea.

“I have to ask an apology from you, Ser Brienne,” He said finally, his voice so lilted that he did not sound like himself. “I have been considering how to tell you this for many days.”

For an absurd moment, she couldn’t help but glance around her, hand on her sword, thinking that someone might be there to kill her. IT would not be the first time someone had been sent to kill her. But the Great Hall had not changed, the smattering of people still eating not paying any more mind to her than they usually did.

“A misunderstanding,” Bran said again, his lips upturned slightly, “I don’t know if what I have is bad news, Ser Brienne.”

She raised her eyebrows, “It cannot be worse than an approaching assassin, Lord Stark,” She said and Bran gave her a real smile.

“I suppose not.” He narrowed his eyes a bit, the blue almost completely hidden between his lids. “There is a rider coming North. From the capital.” He paused. “For you, Ser Brienne.”

“What rider?”

“That is not my secret to tell.” He said, cryptic as ever, but his eyes gentled. “Not an assassin, though. They mean you no harm.”

“Thank you, Lord Stark.”

“You may call me Bran, Ser Brienne. I am not truly a Lord.”

How often had she said similar things to many people? How many times had she been Lady Brienne to her own distaste?

“Thank you, Bran.” She said, though his prophecy meant nothing to her at the moment. “Would you like to join Podrick, Lady Sansa, and I in the yard for morning practice?”

“I would,” He said, and she took hold of the back of his chair. To her surprise, rather than the silence she was accustomed to, he started to speak. Talking about the birds and the fresh blooming winter flowers and the birds that came with them. For a moment, she thought he almost sounded pleased.

In the evening, news came from the front. They knew that the siege on Kings Landing had begun, but nothing had come since. The heavy raven that flew to them now carried news of Cersei Lannister’s death, though no description of the circumstances. Brienne was unsure if she cared to know too much.

Otherwise, there was a lack of detail. To Brienne, this seemed a typical wartime transmission. Sansa; however, was made wary by the news. “A note this simple means things are more complicated than they would like us to know,” Her face, framed by her flaming hair, was set in hard lines. It caught the light off of the fire in her chambers, making it seem as though she were truly aflame there in her chair. Or, at least, that is what Brienne knew that others might think. To her, this red became Sansa in a way that Sansa herself could perhaps not see. It was the red of the Godswood, of the Weirwood leaves that feel with the promise of the Old Gods.

“It says nothing of Arya, or Jon,” Sansa had thrown the paper to the table. She had asked after Bran, but had been told he knew already of the contents. Brienne was slightly relieved by this. His presence seemed to unnerve Sansa a bit, even though Brienne had decided he was perhaps better company than she had originally thought after spending so much time with him that morning. “Or of Jaime Lannister.”

Her voice was soft. Soft only for Brienne’s sake since it was underlined still with the harsh distaste Sansa held for him. It chilled Brienne all the same, the cold running along her spine. Everything he had said to her, every word that had sliced down to her bones and settled so deep it seemed to be caught in her marrow, came back in a rush. She let it go in a long breath, closing her eyes as Sansa looked away from her for a fleeting moment.

“If Cersei is dead, I suspect Ser Jaime has met the same fate,” Brienne responded. “IF you would excuse me, My Lady, I am quite tired…”

She stood, knowing that Sansa would not ask her to stay now. “Ser Brienne?” Her Lady’s voice sounded so like a child again that Brienne had to stop, hand on the door to leave. She turned, Sansa’s eyes looking up at her, not betraying her thoughts but seeming to be on the very edge of doing so. “Is that what Bran told you this morning?”

“No, my Lady.” Brienne shook her head, having nearly forgotten the mystery that had troubled her throughout the day, “Only that there is a rider coming North for me. I suspect it is one of my father’s men, recalling me to Tarth.”

“Safe travels to him, then,” Sansa said, her voice tinged with something. Not disappointment. Not truly.

Brienne closed the door softly behind her, listening for only a moment at the sound of the paper being picked up again from the table.

“Meera told me once that a servant at their home used to make tarts from the winter blueberries,” Bran reached out a hand to the bush on the far side of castle underneath his rooms. It was nearly stripped of its berries, the birds having made quick work of it. Brienne wondered how many of them had been guided there by Bran, to ensure they would have food in the harsh cold that started each day and ended each night. “I’ve never actually eaten one.”

“Would you like one?”

Most of the remaining berries were at the top of the tree, slightly shriveled from even the small amount of sun there, and perhaps just out of Bran’s reach.

“No,” He said, after a moment. “I will taste them later.”

The sort of comments that unsettled nearly everyone, including Brienne herself until recently, now made her wonder what it must truly be to fly as a bird. Or run as swift as a deer or wolf in the woods surrounding Winterfell. She didn’t suspect she would ever know, but had decided it was interesting to hear Bran speak of it either way.

“Who is Meera?” She asked, wheeling them past the bush towards the open yard. Brienne did not consider herself one for idle conversation, but there was no such thing as idle conversation with Bran Stark. And they had quite a ways to go on her midday walk, which he had requested she accompany him on.

“Meera Reed,” He answered, “She took me to meet the Three Eyed Raven.”

“The former, I take it.”

“Yes,” And she could hear the slight smile in Bran’s voice, “She will inherit House Reed when her father dies. Her brother Jojen died while we were beyond the wall.”

Brienne did not know what to say. This still, all in all, told her very little of Meera Reed. She imagined a northern girl, like the ones who milled about the castle, and the ones who had come into the new training program she and Podrick had designed. Strong, resolute, with pale skin and dark hair. A touch sad, perhaps, though she seemed to have a taste for blueberry tarts.

Brienne said very little as they continued moving, other than to inquire where Bran would like to be taken. “The Godswood,” He had said, “By the water.”

She had taken him there, wondering if she should wait until he was finished with whatever it was he was planning on doing, standing awkwardly at the edge of the trees.

“You don’t have to stay with me,” He said, “I don’t mind being alone.”

“I don’t mind staying with you,” She said, and she didn’t truly. They had spent the morning in the yard, and the Godswood was a nice change from the bustle of the castle. Bran, in his strange sort of wisdom, had gone from unnerving to rather calming, something she hadn’t realized that she needed. Still waiting on more news from the South, word on Lady Arya and the others, was taking its toll on Brienne’s nerves. Sansa’s as well, who was found pacing the parlor of the Lord chambers more often than not the past week. Being with Bran, who seemed rather unperturbed by it all, was a nice change of pace.

Bran’s gaze was fixed on the water. For a moment, Brienne thought he was gone into whatever trance he put himself into, but his eyes stayed brown as he watched a silvered fish dart by. “Meera loved me,” He said, in the same voice he had told her that someone rode for her. “She wanted us to be together after we returned.”

“We can’t help who we love.” She had expected the words to feel hollow on her lips. They tasted of blood and sweat and mud and everything else he had been caked in when he said them to her. They were whole, they were real. The heaviest thing she had said, and suddenly the world was pressing on her chest.

“No,” He agreed, “I think I would have loved her, too, if I was only Bran. I see her sometimes, in my dreams, but those thoughts aren’t only mine anymore.” He turned to look at Brienne, a question in his stoic face. “It’s a strange thing, to have loved and lost and to still linger.”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Your rider is almost here, Ser Brienne,” He said, his voice changing in an instant, “And you will have a choice to make.”

She wanted to know, desperately, what he meant by that. What any of this meant. Why he had told her about Meera. Why, if he could not want and was not truly a man, he still went to her, even if it was while embodying a bird or wolf or owl or whatever form he might take. She understood the impulse, there was so much of her, hidden behind a wall of their parting, that would give nearly anything just to see him again. Smiling, or laughing, or swinging Widow’s Wail in a wide arc. But she did not ask.

“I’m going to go for a while,” Bran broke the silence, “You don’t have to stay with me.”

She moved to sit in her usual space, the quiet form of Bran Stark hardly making a difference in her usual contemplation amongst the trees.

“She’s destroyed Kings Landing,” Sansa sat across from her at their morning meal again, her plate untouched. Podrick swallowed beside Brienne, his face troubled but still looking naïve. Sansa laid the letter flat on the table, “This letter is a warning from Tyrion.”

The writing was neat but the letters were hurried. There was no signature, no seal. “If she knows he sent it, he’s dead by now,” Sansa said, curling and uncurling a gloved fist.

“How do you know it is from Lord Tyrion, My Lady?” Podrick said, looking quizzically at the letter.

“He used to leave me notes each day, telling me where he would be.” Sansa said, as if startled by both the question and the memory, “When we were married.” She added for clarification.

“If you don’t mind, My Lady?” Brienne reached for the letter. Sansa nodded, and Brienne took it between her fingers, ignoring the ink smears to look at the words underneath. Varys was dead, Arya missing. The city had surrendered, the Iron Fleet and Golden Company destroyed, but Daenerys had burned it to ash. Cersei had been dead when they found her, the life choked from her in her bedroom in the Red Keep, wine untouched by her bedside. She had been dead before the siege even began, before the bells were rung. Jon Snow appeared to be Lord Consort, and the remaining Army the Queen held prepared for a full seizure of the remaining kingdoms, of which the North would be one.

Brienne set the letter down, her stomach clenching until she pushed away the plate of food in front of her. “This is not good news, My Lady.”

“The North will not bend the knee again.”

Brienne watched as Sansa stood, taking the letter with her and leaving the hall not for her chambers but for the rookery. Brienne knew it would be but days until a host of Northern lords arrived, and the plans for either a well-laid diplomatic solution or a final war would be constructed.

“Lady Sansa thought you might like to have a weapon,” Brienne reached a dagger out to Bran, who held it as carefully as one might lift glass. It was a handsome dagger, the handle and sheath in black leather, the Stark direwolf on the small pommel.

“I had a dagger before,” Bran said, unsheathing the blade and holding it up to the light where his face reflected off the steel. “Arya was much more equipped to use it.”

For a moment, Brienne thought he might give it back to her, but he simply put it back in its sheath and laid it across his lap, folding one of his thick furs over it. “Thank you,” He said, and she nodded, moving to push his chair back into the castle. “Sansa is worried about Daenerys’ demands.”

“Lady Sansa is worried about many things, one of which is the Queen.” Brienne agreed, moving them into one of the small halls occupied only by a pair of stewards warming their hands on glasses of tea.

“I don’t believe it will come to war,” Bran said as she took a seat on one of the chairs where he could face her. “Though, I can’t say for certain.”

“Can you not?” Brienne asked, genuinely curious.

“I can see everything that has happened. The ink has dried on the past,” He said, with a small smile, “And I can see what is happening now, with some help especially. The future is muddy. Like trying to catch smoke.”

“Impossible, then.”

“No,” Bran shook his head, “Not impossible.”

Brienne stood in the Godswood, watching the snow fall softly around her, feeling it catch in her hair. What remained of the Karstarks were due in Winterfell tomorrow, then the Glovers. Then the others would follow. Whatever remained of the great houses of the North would rally again at Winterfell.

Before that happened, however, Brienne had the night in the Godswood. A final night in the snow, watching it fill her footfalls and weight down the furs on her shoulders. She had been there for what seemed like hours. After evening training, she eaten quickly and left Podrick and Sansa to last minute preparations, requesting space to take her leave. Even after the war had officially ended, it seemed, with another brewing on the horizon, this still seemed to be the only place left untouched.

How many times had she been here now with Bran. Learned the stories of the Children of the Forest and the First Men and about warging and everything else. It seemed that when you were talking to the one person who knew everything about the world, there were a seemingly endless stream of topics. She was unsure still, of how she had come so easily into Bran’s favor when he struggled still to speak to his own siblings, but she had stopped questioning it and had decided that it was nice to have a friend of sorts that might possibly be the only person in Westeros with no agenda of any kind.

She sat on her log, Oathkeeper untied from her waist resting against the log. She had debated, on more than one occasion, snapping the lion off of the end of the pommel. Perhaps having it replaced with a sun or moon for Tarth or even a direwolf to honor her service for the Starks. But each time her fist had come around it, she could not bear to do it. Of all of the things that he had ever done for her, Oathkeeper was the one that could never be tainted. And now, it was the way she chose to remember him. Scarred, beautiful, full of the realization that perhaps his life could mean more than endless service to his sister and his father. The man she had seen in Kings Landing, the man who had left Riverrun untouched at her request as he allowed her to escape and fulfil their joint oath.

It looked almost out of place in the Godswood, however. Weapons, generally, did not seem to blend in well with the trees and leaves and peaceful waters. This is where Arya Stark had killed the Night King, though, and the Ironborn had died to protect Bran from wights and whitewalkers alike even as they were slaughtered. This was a place of bloodshed, where the Weirwood tree weeped perhaps for lost life.

Did it weep for her? Or perhaps for Catelyn Stark and her lost children. Perhaps it simply weeped for loss and pain and lingering love until its red sap had dried from the crushing weight of it all. She closed her eyes, fighting back tears of her own. She was tired of war, so tired of fighting. If she prayed still, she would pray they not go to war. That no one ever go to war again and the seven kingdoms lived peacefully.

And that made her think of Kings Landing, lying in ashes and rubble and waste while the innocents who had gone there for protection, who had tried to surrender, had been burned to ash by the woman sworn to protect them. She thought of the bath at Harrenhaal. There had been no Jaime Lannister to break his oath this time, no one to stand for the half a million people blown into nonexistence. If that were not a reason to go to war, what reason could there be?

She heard soft footsteps coming from the entrance, so soft that at first she thought it was perhaps only the wind rattling the stiff branches. But they came closer and closer. She shifted Oathkeeper to her hand, one hand gripping the handle in case it were an unsavory character, though the odds were high it was simply a servant come to fetch her for Lady Sansa.

A hooded figure, cloak torn in various spots, jacket holding oddly, stepped out of the shadows. She drew Oathkeeper then, leaping to her feet even as the figure stopped. “Who are you?” She asked, wary of intruders. If one had made it this far, there could be others. She needed to question him.

Their hands moved, and Brienne took a step closer, nearly within striking range. But they held no weapons, did nothing but push the hood back from their face with their left hand.

“Bran Stark told me you would be here.”

She dropped Oathkeeper into the snow, the blade sinking into the snow between them, creating a wall between her and Jaime Lannister who’s windblown face had tears running down each side of it. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy, folks! 
> 
> Hope you enjoy this! May post an epilogue, depending on whether or not folks have questions. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who read and kudosed the first chapter! Special thanks to those who commented, its always what keeps me writing and I really appreciate all of you! 
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoy! Please R and R, let me know what you think! 
> 
> Also, find me on tumblr at this same name :)

When the soft knock came to her door, she expected him to be on the other side of it. She had busied herself in her chambers as the castle came alive with the rumors of his return and she had to hide behind the heavy wood and metal locks to get some peace. She wondered if he was still in the Godswood, thinking that perhaps she would return to him. But she couldn’t. Not there.

Instead, when she swung the door open violently, letting the wood hit the hard stone wall, it was Lady Sansa who stood waiting. “Podrick told me Ser Jaime had returned to Winterfell.” She said carefully, “I thought we should talk about it.”

Brienne dipped her head and Sansa stepped in, taking a seat at the small table. Brienne closed and locked the door behind her, staring at it after, not wanting to look over at the Lady of Winterfell. “I could have him imprisoned,” Sansa offered, and though Brienne knew that Sansa was perhaps only trying to lighten the mood, she also knew that if that was actually what she desired, he would be in a cell within minutes.

“No, My Lady,” Brienne said, turning to look at Sansa, deciding she ought to move and sit beside her. “You have far more important matters to be dealing with than this.”

“I’m not certain that’s true.”

“If there is war to come, My Lady—”

“I would like to think that we have all had enough of war for a time,” Sansa said, her blue eyes softer than Brienne had ever seen them. “I would like to think that love is more important than war.”

Love. It was, to Brienne, as intangible as it was overwhelming. Love was his pretty words, spoken to her on nights only when there had not been bigger things to lose. Love was his promises, written across her skin and her heart and her bones that had broken as easily as she had always worried she might. Love was Lady Sansa and Podrick, her semblance of a family with her father so far away. Love was his tears in the Godswood, the ones that kept flowing as he picked Oathkeeper up from the snow to hand back to her. Love was the warring urges she felt to scream at him, to yell and curse his name to all of the Gods she could muster in her imagination and to reach a hand out and brush the tears from his skin with her fingers, to hold him so close to her that she could be certain he was real.

“They are similar,” Brienne said, so softly she wondered if she had even meant to speak it aloud.

“I don’t wish to intrude into your thoughts, Ser Brienne,” Sansa reached a hand across the table, offering a comforting touch. “Bran has extended our hospitality to Ser Jaime for the time being…If you wish him to leave, you need only let me know.”

Sansa stood with a final, thin-lipped smile, and Brienne knew that these events worried her Lady deeply. But it was also true that tomorrow she would entertain a host of Northmen who she then might lead to war,and that would consume most of her energies. The die was cast, and Brienne was well aware that most of this worry was on her behalf rather than a matter of general concern. She was not sure which she preffered.

“Thank you, My Lady,” She said, as Sansa moved to leave. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

She expected to see him at the morning meal, eating his preferred meal of thick porridge with sweet milk and sap syrup. Even that simple thought turned her stomach, remembering what seemed to be a thousand kisses that tasted of sap syrup, thick and sweet from the bits that clung to his lips after breakfast each morning. Before he had gone, she had learned that his sweet tooth did not end with breakfast. He loved the sugar-cured ham they served in thick slices at lunch, the caramelized onions and gourds that came with dinner. But most of all, he loved the tarts they made, especially those with the dried sweet apples and syrup, with the thicker crust while she herself preferred the small, crispier ones. It was not uncommon for him to rise in the middle of the night to go to the kitchen to take any leftovers they might have had from the evening meal: If there were multiple, he made sure to bring her one, if there was only one, he always shared even if she insisted she did not want any.

Those memories, the small things that had brought so much joy to her for what felt a whole lifetime, now dug under her skin like knives. She braced herself to see him in the hall, sitting at the table where he had sat next to her for so long. But he wasn’t. Sansa and Podrick weren’t there either, only Bran, slicing his usual melon and eggs.

“Bran,” She said, nodding and sitting down across from him with her food. “Where is Lady Sansa?”

“She is preparing the castle for the Karstark arrival,” Bran said, not looking up at her.

“Of course.” She said, looking down at her own food, wondering if anything had ever looked less appetizing.

“He is waiting for you in the Godswood.” Bran had finally finished slicing his meal into this strips and had forked his first bite. He looked up at her, and she noticed he had dark circles under his eyes. “He spoke with me this morning.”

Brienne did not respond, and Bran looked away from her again, eating carefully. There was no way for her to know what he was thinking, even though they had spent many hours together in the past few weeks, he remained largely an enigma.

“I am sorry I could not tell you before he arrived, Ser Brienne,” Bran spoke softly, still distant but the same tone with which he spoke in the Godswood. “It was not my place.”

“I know,” She said with as much indifference as she could manage. “It cannot be easy to know everything and have no one to share it with.”

They finished their meal in relative silence, listening to the bustle of barrels being rolled through the hall and horses being pulled into stables. The early arrival party had come that morning, and the guests were being settled into their chambers on the far side of the castle; Lady Karstark would be there later with her betrothed, one of the young sons of House Glover, accompanying her. They held little interest for Brienne, who both burned to leave the hall and to stay in her seat forever.

When she could no longer take it, no longer pretend to scrape at empty stoneware with her fork, she stood to leave.

“Ser Brienne,” Bran spoke again, looking up at her with his longstanding, deep-set gaze, “I am not as alone as you think I am.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You can’t have a truce without trust,” He paused, and she was hit with the cold memory of those words, and gave her a small smile, “Or a true friendship without understanding. I don’t think that anyone can truly understand me, but I do trust you.”

He was beautiful. She stopped walking to look at him for a long moment, taking in the sight of him there. He was on her log, his left hand stretched down and twisting around a long tendril of a grass that was feeding off the of the decomposing log and thriving in the weak sunlight there. His armor was still his Northern armor that he had worn south, pieces missing and threadbare at the joints where the boiled leather had cracked, but he was spotlessly clean. He was beautiful. He had always been beautiful.

She stopped at the edge of the glen, watching him carefully. There were no tears on his face today, though she did notice three news scars, barely noticeable and shaped like perfect half-moons, on his cheek. Another a thin line that disappeared into his collar. Widow’s Wail was propped against the log in the same way that Oathkeeper had been, though the blade was shorter. With his slightly longer hair and his sword laid out beside him, he could be the knight in a thousand songs. With only one exception: His golden hand, usually strapped over his wrist, was gone entirely. It was only his arm, tucked against his torso to ward off the cold. She took a deep breath, doing her best to silence the past, having little idea how to start this conversation.

“Your hand is missing.”

He startled so hard when she spoke that he nearly rolled backwards off of the log. He looked up at her, a hopeful smile on his face, and then down at his wrist. He moved his arm away from his body, holding it up. “It has been for years, Ser.”

He didn’t say her name, she noticed. He stood, eye level with her now, letting his arm fall back to his side. “Your golden hand,” She said, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. If she maintained her suspension of disbelief for a moment, it almost felt as though they could be joking as they always had. “Where is it?”

“Somewhere in the Riverlands,” He said, his face falling slightly, “I left it when I rode back to you.”

Her heart beat a loud thump against her chest, aching all the way up to her throat. Back to her. He had ridden back to her. Old voices, old doubts sounded louder in her head. _Second choice. Last choice. He loved her. Only her._ She lacked the strength to beat them back.

“Brienne, you have every right to not want to talk to me,” He paused, lost for words, stumbling over them in a way that she had never seen. The confident man whom she had known for years was stripped down to his barest elements, no façade or false grandeur to hide behind. “I don’t even know what to say.”

“You said enough when you left,” She answered, anger rolling in her stomach next to something close to pity. She did not pity Jaime Lannister, she had never pitied Jaime Lannister and she would be damned if she started now. He did not deserve or need her pity, and she refused to give it to him.

“That wasn’t— Those things weren’t true.”

“What things were true, then?” He reeled back as if he had been struck by her words, his eyes meeting hers only, she felt, though her own determination to hold it. “If those things were false, Ser Jaime, then what truths have you spoken in our time together?”

He said nothing, his face as pale as the snows save for the red on each cheek.

“When you came to Winterfell, I said you were a man with honor. A man who kept his vows,” She moved her hand to Oathkeeper, gripping the handle tightly between her fingers. “But war changes people, I’ve seen what it’s done to the people here. To the soldiers, to the Lords. To me.” She took a shuddering breath, horrible tears betraying her at the edges of her eyes, threatening to leak down her face. “I think that man may be gone now.”

She waited, waited on him to say something. To speak her words untrue. But he stood motionless, even as she moved her gaze away from him to the gentle waters. After only a moment, watching a heavy red leaf float past in the water, becoming wetter and wetter until it sank below the water, she turned and left, following her footpath back towards the castle.

The day passed as a dance. In and out of rooms, being introduced and re-introduced to new people, avoiding him as he became a backdrop against the wall of the castle. By the end of it, Brienne was exhausted in a way she could never remember quite being before. She had expected the same pain she had felt the morning she had woken and found that his departure was real, that everything they had held together was disappeared. But this was not that pain. It was a tiredness, deep in her body and mind until everything seemed an added weight. Every glance at him, every question asked of her, every snowflake that caught in her hair.

She avoided dinner, taking a board with bread, salt beef, and hard cheese back to her chambers. The fire in the hearth blazed warmer and warmer as she stacked it with logs. She sat at the table there, wishing it were late enough that she could sleep and have some rest from the day. But it was scarcely evening outside, the twilight coming hard and fast but light still glittering over the castle.

Instead, she walked to the window, leaning her hands on the brick that were warmed where they touched her palms and iced near the windowsills. The yard was quiet, a soft wind blowing through the area, rustling the branches of the trees in the Godswood and blowing off the billowed snows from the side towers. There was no usual sound of clanging swords in the yard, too late for most people to be out practicing, though there were occasional stragglers, herself included.

Tonight though, the yard was quiet, small fires in the braziers that caught on the new coat of snow. But the swords were put away, the axes wedged into the stumps they had moved to hold them in place, even the forge fire burned lower for the night. Tomorrow, Sansa had told her, they would be moving at full steam to prepare in case there were fights to come. The Karstarks seemed both eager and reluctant; and could she blame them? The only living member of their house was Alys, and their numbers of fighters had dwindled. Whole generations of men had been wiped out, and the woman, after their joint training had begun, had followed suit in the long night. But still they came, still they pledged loyalty. If the North were to rise, they would rise there with it.

But whatever host of Karstarks had come to Winterfell, they were enjoying Lady Sansa’s hospitality indoors. Only two figures were in the courtyard this side of the stable, and at first glance, she paid them no mind, paying attention instead to the brilliant colors overhead.

But at second glance, she realized that she recognized those figures, though they were more heavily dressed than usual. Furs around the shoulders, one was moving their arms animatedly, an odd thing for Podrick to do. Her squire was usually quite calm, his easygoing nature part of the reason that Brienne valued his company so much. But now, he looked on the verge of a fight, and as she watched, he stood.

The other figure was Ser Jaime, who sat placidly as Pod stormed back into the castle, clearly finished with whatever conversation they had been having. He stood after a moment, and Brienne waited for him to follow him, but instead he reached for one of the axes with his left hand hurled it at a target. It lodged instead in the side of a stacks of practice shields. He reached for another as she watched, and with a yell that made her blood run cold, her hurled it after the first with even poorer aim.

Drawing a long breath, she reached for her outer robes.

“She doesn’t want to speak with me, Podrick,” He had not turned to face her, launching another axe at the standing targets. “And I can’t very well force her, too.”

“No,” She agreed and he whipped around, his feet unsteady on the hardening ice, though he managed to maintain his composure. “I don’t suppose you could.”

“Ser Brienne,” He said, swallowing heavily. He looked startlingly like he did the night before, angry tears streaked across his face, the cold swelling the edges of his cheeks. She had what she considered a bizarre impulse to reach out for his arm, grip his bicep in her arm until the urge he had to throw axes went away and the pain in his face dissapeared. “I thought you were Podrick.”

“Podrick is inside with Lady Sansa,” She said, and the air thickened between them. She felt her chin wobble a bit, trying not to show how she truly felt, standing half-dressed in the courtyard speaking to him again. “I did not say that I didn’t wish to speak with you.”

“You left,” He said softly, and she thought that of all things he had had said to hurt her, that bit of hope in his voice now might be the most painful.

“I wasn’t ready to speak with you earlier,” She said honestly. She wanted this on her terms, if he owed her anything, he owed her that. “But now, if you still wanted to…”

“Here?” He said eagerly, “Or, Lady Sansa has given me a bit of room in the soldiers quarters...”

“The Godswood,” She said, and he nodded, following a half-step behind her as she started that way.

The light was fading fast as they arrived, but he held a torch in his hand that he set and stabilized in the snow as she moved to sit on her log. He seemed hesitant to sit beside her, but eased himself onto the log with careful precision, as if he moved too fast she might vanish. The air was cold, the log colder, but the bit of fire he had carried for them burned brightly. She watched it, watched the shine catching on the water as it flowed in the small stream feet away.

“You came back.” She said simply.

“I made a promise.”

“To whom, Ser Jaime?” She said and let the memories she had kept at bay flood back. Sitting here with him now, she thought of those dark winter weddings they had been to, for men and women that had found love after death or had simply wanted to avoid the inevitable hordes of bastard children born after the Battle of Winterfell if they hadn’t.

“You.” He answered.

“I think its clear that the promises you made to me were little more than wind.”

“That isn’t true.”

“Then what is the truth, Ser Jaime?” If they had been anywhere else, she might have been yelling now, the anger bursting out of her chest.

He had gone silent again. She did not look to him, her eyes fixed on the fire again as if she had hoped to see the truth in the flames. Sandor Clegane had talked about it once, about the images that Beric Dondarrion and Thoros of Myr had shown him beyond the wall int eh center of a fire. But the followers of R’hllor were long dead, and though she remembered the Hound with good clarity, the exact details of the others were fading. Their names and the details of their lives and deaths were what remained, not the sounds of their voices or the exact shades of their hair. So it was with all heroes, she supposed.

“I killed my sister.”

Brienne was certain that her breath had stopped. Both because the clouds of white that hovered in front of her face stopped appearing and because her chest burned.

“I choked the life from her while she clawed at me. So she couldn’t scream for that beast to come and kill me.” She looked over at him, his green eyes dark in the dim light. His face was contorted, not with rage. Not with grief. Perhaps with both. “I left her in her bed and when I left the Red Keep, the Dragon Queen was at the gate.”

She wanted to speak, had a million questions in her mind, but he was far away. His mind was in Kings Landing, remembering things that she realized were perhaps best forgotten. “I remembered what Tyrion had told me, about her plans, so I rang the bells before I left in a boat that he had Davos put out for me, meant to sail for Pentos.”

“Pentos…” She whispered.

“He thought I was going to save Cersei. That we could take a boat to Pentos and live out our lives there together.” He shook his head violently, “As if I would want that. After everything that happened. The baby, Bronn. All the lies she fed me.”

“Jaime…”

“She had wildfire, same as Aerys. Under the city.” He said, and shuddered, not for the cold. “I saw it explode when Daenerys burned it to the ground. If the dragon didn’t get them, the wildfire did.” He stood, one hand over his face, not looking at her. “All of them are dead. All of them. I tried to save them again, I thought if she was dead, that would be the end of it. If the city surrendered, Tyrion said that she would call off the attack. None of it mattered.”

She stood too, now reaching out to grasp his arm and instead sliding her hand up to his face, a gentle but firm hand on his jaw turning his face towards her.

“I thought I would die there, Brienne. Die with her because its what I deserved.” She felt his hand come up to hers, stroking her fingers gently, the same way it had as she looked at him as he left that night. As she begged him to stay.

“You were a good man,” She said, “An honorable man, Ser Jaime.”

“Am I not now?” He asked, a hint of a smile on his lips. “I don’t think so either.”

“Hateful,” She whispered, “You called yourself hateful and now you’re here crying for people you’ve never met.” He looked away from her as she spoke, as if not wanting to admit it to himself, “That is far from hateful.”

“I rode North for you, Brienne.” He shifted minutely, barely closer to her and yet the warmth from his body moved against her. Familiar, sweet, and so close that she wanted nothing more than to lean into it. “I saw all of them forget their vows. I saw a Queen burn her own people, the same sin I killed a king for. And I wanted nothing more than to be by your side again, away from that place.” She wanted to lean into him, to take his words now and live with them in her heart and him at her side. But there was that doubt in the back of her mind, the same doubt that poisoned the urge she held to take him in her arms again.

“Why did you leave?” She asked softly, “Do you understand how those words hurt, Jaime? To have you say I wasn’t enough. That living here with me wasn’t enough. That you’d rather die with her than live here with me.”

He looked up into her eyes, pain writ across his face. “I thought you would follow me,” He whispered, “I couldn’t have you die down there.”

She said nothing, loathe to pull away, unsure if this is where she needed to be, cradling his jaw, feeling his tears dampen and freeze to her fingers. She wanted it to be true, wanted to think that was all there was too it. That his cold words, his unfamiliar heart had been a ruse. But the doubt lingered, ingrained by years of self-loathing, of lost love, of imposed misery. She took a breath, strengthening herself to step away from him.

“I love you, Brienne.”

And she kissed him instead.

“It’s still bloody hot in here,” Her room was far warmer than the hall outside, but she did not think that it merited his sarcastic commentary.

She placed her outerwear over the hook where it made it easy to access, wondering what exactly she was thinking. A large part of her said not to do this, that it was too soon and her emotions were too high to invite him back into her bed like this. “I can leave, Brienne,” He said, and she turned to look at him. “This isn’t an obligation.”

It did not feel like an obligation. It did not feel like an obligation when she kissed him in the Godswood, when she pulled him tight to her. When he pressed his forehead to hers to catch his breath and she whispered that she loved him to. When their tears mixed together on their cheeks as the end of his severed wrist wrapped against her waist to hold her close there in the snow.

“It doesn’t feel like one,” She assured him.

“We don’t have to do anything,” He said carefully, “I can sleep at this table.”

“I wouldn’t invite you back here to sleep at the table,” She said, and for the first time that night, he smiled broadly at her. He was beautiful, so beautiful. And he loved her.

She could scarcely believe it. Part of this felt as though it would disappear in the morning, the way it had before. That she would walk out of this room and they would be marching South with a host of warriors against a woman they had fought alongside only three months before. She stepped over to him, catching his gaze with a small smile of her own. All was not right, all was not healed, but this was a moment they could have now.

But, as he reached a practiced hand to the ties on her shirt, he had never felt more real. As he kissed her gently, catching her bottom lip between perfect teeth, his arm on her waist and his hand on her breast, she decided that even if this were not real, it could be hers. She could live this truth for herself, even if for only a moment.

She was content to let it move slowly though. Passion burned between them, ignited her skin, but a reunion was different than the first consummation of their love. There was no need to rush: Tomorrow could take as long as it liked to arrive, as far as Brienne was worried, and not simply for this. He tasted like mint leaf, the type of tea he always took after dinner, his tongue brushing her as he continued to push her clothes back off of her.

She broke their kiss, his mouth going immediately to her neck, sucking lightly at a spot behind her ear he had discovered long ago and seemingly not forgotten. She shivered, from the touch, front the newfound cold on her skin, and reached for the laces of his shirt. The knots were uncomplicated, simple for a man who needed to dress himself one-handed. They slid off of his skin like water, falling at his feet as the newfound freedom had him pressing them towards the bed that her legs bumped into, though she didn’t fall back yet.

“You have new scars,” She said softly, perhaps breaking the spell. He pulled back, looking down at his torso, but her fingers brushed his face, tracing over those perfect half moons that circled the crest of his cheekbone. Touching them softly, she realized they were from fingernails. His sister’s fingers, clawing at his face.

“And old ones,” He quipped, moving his arm from his waist to hold up the stumped end. She took it between her hands, tracing it with her thumb and planting a soft kiss. It was not a new gesture, but one that never failed to take his breath away, and now as certainly no exception as he stared at her with a profound reverence.

“You left your golden hand.”

“I’m not that man anymore.”

He kissed her hard then, pulling his hand free to support her as they moved to the bed, his body settled to one side of her. Only half-undressed, the thick furs of the bed were hot, becoming only hotter as he left her open mouthed, continuing his kiss down her body. Alogn her collarbone, placing a single kiss to each of the three thin scars the bear had left behind. He did that each time: Touched them, kissed them. Another habit not lost to their separation.

Propped on his right arm, he hovered over her from the side, his hand free to explore paths of skin that his mouth quickly followed. She twisted with need, her lower body starting to ache for him as he kissed along her breast, laying his tongue flat against each nipple, teasing them upwards. He stopped at her stomach, though, and she reached down to run a hand through his hair, both soft and stiff under her fingers.

“Can I take these off you?” He asked, and at her nod, undid her breeches, pulling both those and her smallclothes down her legs and tossing them into the room. He looked up at her, leaning into her hand against his face for a moment until he moved his entire body, climbing over the bed to settle between her legs.

She glanced down, his arousal evident in his breeches, but he made no move to take them off. Instead, he leaned down again, hovering over her lips for a moment before pressing a kiss to them that was almost chaste. As she rose to meet him, hands going around him to feel the muscles of his back, gripping his shoulder blades. She moaned into his mouth as his hand slid between her legs, brushing right against the apex of her thighs. She lifted her hips, needing more of his touch, unable to stop kissing him to tell him so.

He was hers. Showing her all of that and more right in this moment. He moved from her mouth again to her breasts, his fingers rubbing slow circles against her the entire time until he drug his mouth past her navel.

His green eyes met hers, his pupils blown as he sucked and nibbled at her thighs, fingers teasing the very edge of her body. “Please, Jaime.” He let out a little grown at that, nearly undetectable, finally moving his lips to suck right where she ached the most for his touch.

She breathed hard, fingers twisted in her blankets as lips continued their work and a finger slid inside of her. “I’ve missed this,” He said, breath warm against her legs. He worked over her until he could move his fingers comfortably within her, curling them just so to get her to grind upwards against his lips. IT was in that moment, right before she felt herself toppling over the edge, his name on her lips, that he stopped, climbing back up her body.

The front of his breeches ground against her body, showing that the desperation in that moment was a shared one. “Can I take these off you?” She said, reaching for what remained of his clothes.

“Please do,” He said, and she noticed, looking at his lips before he moved his head to watch her undress him, that they glistened slightly, the thought sending a jolt all the way through her. He helped to kick off his pants, and both of them paused for a moment, breaths slightly off sync.

“I never thought I’d see you again,” She reached up her hands to his face, turning him to look at her, “Never thought we’d be here again.”

“I’ll never leave you again,” He said softly. “Not unless you want me to go.”

She slid her hands down his chest, around his waist to squeeze his buttocks lightly, a motion that caused him an easy smile. It had been a long time, the first time they were together, that she had even dared to do that, shyness and outdated ideas about women and pleasure and sex warring with her desire to touch every inch of his body.

She took him in her hand, watching his chest constrict and listening to the moan that pushed past his lips as she stroked him slowly, leaning up for another kiss.

His tongue in her mouth, the gentle thrust of his hips into her grasp had her body aching again in seconds. But she moved them slowly, releasing him from her grip only to wrap her hands around his neck and kiss him deeper for so long she felt dizzy when they finally broke apart.

“I need you, Jaime,” She said, and waited, feeling him press into her before his hand moved to her hip, hooking her leg over his waist as he slid fully into her.

His thrusts were gentle, as much about them being together as it was about pleasure, until she wrapped her other leg around his waist, pushing him deeper into her body, heels pressing against him with each thrust.

“I love you,” He panted, kissing all over her neck and chest and breasts as his thrusts increased in speed. “Gods, Brienne.”

She couldn’t speak, letting the involuntary moans she making, hands woven tightly in his hair as he lowered himself closer to her skin, rubbing his fingers against her in time with his thrusts. She closed her eyes, letting the pleasure, the lightness, the freedom of this wash over her. She pulled him closer, feeling her release coming hard and fast as he kept moving inside of her, determined to not let lingering doubts ruin their moment.

“Thank you for joining me again, Ser Brienne,” Bran spoke lightly as Brienne pushed them around the castle, as if nothing beyond the ordinary had happened that day. “I was worried you would be too busy with the travel preparations.”

“I left Podrick with the armory commands for the early afternoon.” She explained, trying not to sound in as good a mood as she was in. By all standards, every one of them should be devastated. Their Queen, the one who had ridden her dragons north to save them all from the army that sought to devour the whole of humanity, was dead. Killed by the former King in the North. They should, as custom dictated, be mourning the Queen and forsaking Jon Snow, though it seemed that the exact opposite was the case in Winterfell.

Word had come while she stood in the Godswood the morning after her first night with Jaime. Podrick had come running to her, slowing only after he made it past the entrance, to carry the news to her. The Karstarks, having made preparations to return home, instead left Lady Alys, her betrothed, and a small group of household guard remained to decide who would accompany Sansa to the South as part of the council of Lords that had been called.

“Have you made your choice yet, Ser?” Bran asked, changing the subject from the avoided war, though Brienne had learned from him that he would be going to Kings Landing as well.

“My choice?”

“About your rider,” He asked, and she stopped moving them. It seemed as though he had anticipated she might do that as a large bird, black as soot, landed on his outstretched arm. He uncurled his fist to show a handful of dried oats that the bird pecked gently. “A mother,” He explained, “Her nest is outside of Sansa’s window.”

“I am sure Lady Sansa enjoys their company.” She said, still unsure how to respond to the first. What decision should she have made. It was, perhaps, vaguely unsettling to think that Bran Stark knew that she and Jaime had been engaging in various nighttime pursuits, though she supposed he did technically know that about everyone.

“You don’t have to answer my question,” Bran said, turning his head as the bird finished her snack and flew away, “But I think you should know that once we ride South it may be a long time before you’re back in Winterfell, Ser Brienne.”

“Is something going to happen in the Capital?” She was alarmed, wondering what all he had seen.

“I can’t say for certain,” He said, and she started wheeling him again. “I don’t think that power will remain as it is now.”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“The seven kingsdoms have only been seven kingdoms for three hundred years,” He said calmly, and she wondered if he had ever vanished into the past to watch as his ancestor bent the knee in the face of Aegon the Conqueror. If he had watched the dragons of old fly overhead and consume the kingdom in their wings. “Sansa wants to lead the North to its independence again.”

“And what about you?” Brienne was unsure where Bran planned to be. It was clear he had no intentions of ruling Winterfell, and that Sansa was the true leader both in the castle and across the region.

“I have a feeling I will stay in the South.” They had arrived at the Godswood, no snow falling with the surprising warmth of the day. “”For a time, at least.”

“Why is that?”

“I’m not sure,” Bran said, smiling ruefully as she moved where she could sit on the log and see his face. “I think that Sansa will return here, to this place, as a Queen.”

Brienne thought about that. What it would mean to return as a sworn sword to the Queen in the North. And she immediately thought of Tarth, of her father who waited in his old age for her return as his heir. And she thought of Jaime, who hated this place outside of her bedchamber, the place where he felt so strongly that he had failed his humanity.

“I think that there could not be a better queen,” Brienne said, careful of her words. What life did she want after this? What life would she have now?

“I don’t think so either. I think this is where she is supposed to be,” Bran agreed, but turned his gaze from the haunted eyes of the Weirwood to meet hers. “She will not need you as she does now.”

Brienne said nothing, thinking he might be right –Bran had rarely been wrong-- but retaliating against it. Even a Queen needed a guard, even a Queen as beloved as Sansa would have enemies lurking.

“Tarth will need you, however. And I will need you,” Bran said thoughtfully. “If that is the choice you make.”

Brienne could remember the exact number of times she had seen snow before coming North to meet Sansa Stark. Seven times, six of which had been during a particularly long winter that had happened back when her brother was still alive and they had packed snowballs on the walking paths surrounding Evenfall Hall, watching snow fall onto the already white-capped waves out to see. Since she had met Sansa, there had been no day that she had not seen snow: Falling freely or blowing in great drifts across the wide plains of the North. She had never cared for the cold, but snow – snow had its magic.

And there in the Godswood of Winterfell, the wind quieted by the thickening of the trees, it was especially true. And this night, when the calming silence had been replaced by brittle congratulations and a lined mass of onlookers, there was a different kind of magic.

The wedding, on their last night in Winterfell, their last night there perhaps ever if what Bran suggested was true, was far from conventional. Podrick, at her request, stood on the groom’s side. Along with Bran, who watched her with an odd expression in eyes that were so dark they seemed black in the evening light. Nearly all of them were there for her, including Lady Sansa who standing with her hands clasped together, having embroidered the gown that Brienne wore herself. It was not a traditional wedding gown, but rather like the tunic Jaime had made for her when they arrived at Kings Landing, a beautiful blue and decorated with the sigil of Tarth.

She walked unescorted towards Jaime, who smiled at her brilliant in his muted crimson doublet. They married there, in the sight of Old Gods, in a ceremony unfamiliar to either of them, hands held tightly together as they exchanged cloaks.

That night would bring celebration, the morning would bring a caravan of Northmen marching south to take their independence after more than a decade of demanding it with iron and blood. The next weeks would bring long rides and nights spent on bedrolls beneath the stars as spring began settling over Westeros. The next months would bring perhaps a return home for one or both of them.

But for now, they had this moment. Wounds perhaps not quite healed, but cuts that were closing with each gentle kiss and shared truth. For each night that was spent talking until the early morning about things that had broken them both, there was another spent drawing out pleasure with hands and mouths and bodies until they were both exhausted and collapsed into each other.

As they left the Godswood, hand in hand, she was careful to walk in her own footsteps, guiding him out. Before they returned to the castle for a night of drinking and revelry and continued ceremony, she paused. He stopped with her, following her eyes that looked out into the falls beyond the castle.

“The snow,” She said, “It’s beautiful.”

“This place is beautiful,” He said, and she raised her eyebrows in surprise. “As long as you are here.”


End file.
